


i like my shirt better (when you're holding it)

by goreyer



Category: Football RPF
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Football, Friends to Lovers, German Football, LGBT, Love, M/M, Olympics, Or Is It?, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goreyer/pseuds/goreyer
Summary: "Leon. Christoph. Goretzka. Of course you deserve me, hell, you deserve more than me. You deserve the universe and I wish I could give it to you, but I'm only 0.001% of the universe."





	i like my shirt better (when you're holding it)

Max wasn't one to get flustered. He could hold his composure well enough to not seem odd. But why was it that whenever Leon Goretzka was around, his composure faltered and he turned into a stuttering mess of unintelligible nonsense? That was a rhetorical question, before you say anything, Max knew why. His crush on his Schalke teammate wasn't anything he hadn't thought about before, especially since he practically spent all day with him, now more than ever whilst they prepared for the Olympics.

"Max, are you deaf?" Max flinched violently as Leon half-shouted into his right ear, his taller frame leaning over the back of the armchair Max was slouched in. 

If it was any other person, Max would've slapped them round the face and came back with some sarcastic comment, but it was Leon - the person who rendered him practically harmless, and speechless too. Leon's breath was tickling Max's ear, raising every single goosebump on the younger Germans' arms. Max wanted to feel Leon's breath wandering down his body, and he had to struggle against imagining it - his warm breath dancing along every inch of skin, lips, that were flushed from the contact of Max's no less, skimming the surface and...  _holy fuck he was in deep._

When Max didn't respond, Leon continued, "I've been telling you a story for the past five minutes, have you not been listening?"

"N-no. I mean yes, of course I have been listening, I meant no I haven't not been listening."  _Oh my God Max, really? You're making this infinitely worse for yourself._

Leon looked at him through narrowed eyes, mouth slightly open as if he was trying to comprehend the words that just left his teammates mouth, "you're so stupid." There was no malice to his words, but Max's heart still dropped to his stomach. 

He hummed in agreement, now slightly aware of Leon as he continued his story, but also focused on his problem of before. How to stop being so stupidly nervous around his teammate. Maybe he needed professional help. Or maybe just semi-professional help. Yeah, he could deal with that. 

 

 

Max opened his laptop after finally being able to rid Leon from their room. The boy was stubborn as hell when he wanted to be, and he was determined to find out why Max wanted him out of the room immediately after they returned from training. Max explained he needed to talk to someone alone - a hardly convincing argument, but one he practically forced Leon to believe. It wasn't completely false, but Max obviously wasn't going to tell him he was about to face time Mario Götze for advice on how to make Leon like him. 

Was it a stupid idea? Yes. Was he going to do it anyway? Of course. He was desperate. 

"Hey Max, you wanted to talk?" Mario's face appeared on the screen, slightly blurry from the terrible connection the hotel held. Still, Max could see the older German's hair was scruffy, leaving not much to the imagination about what Max must've interrupted between him and his (not so) secret boyfriend, Marco.

"Yeah, um, just quickly I guess. It's about Leon." Max seemed to look everywhere but his web camera, nervousness striking him like a knife. 

Mario nodded almost too understandingly, "Marco! Come here a sec." he called over his shoulder. Sure enough, in wandered the blonde winger, hair in a similar state but also lacking a shirt. Normally it wouldn't faze Max, but at this moment in time when he was questioning himself more that normal, it really didn't help to see Marco's structured torso.

"Oh, hey Max." Marco hummed sitting down next to Mario so his face was also visible. 

"Hi, I'm just in a bit of a shitty situation right now and I don't know what to do." Max began, simply.

The two Dortmund boys nodded, "Ok, go on."

Max took a deep breath, unsure of how to structure his comment. "Well, um, I'm not sure if you know already, well you probably won't because I haven't told anyone. But then again you would probably know, because you yourselves are... or is that being presumptuous? Oh God, it really is isn't it? Just because you are doesn't mean you know when other people are, right? Isn't that just stereotypical? Because how do you know if someone is-"

"Max, we know you're gay." Mario deadpanned, not even shifting in his seat. 

"Wait, you do?" Max's eyes widened. 

"No, I just wouldn't have been able to get it out of you any other way."

"What the hell, Mario?! What if that wasn't what I was talking about, you'd have been very rude to assu-"

"But it was what you were talking about, calm down Meyer. So, let me guess, you like Leon but don't know how to tell him."

Max sighed deeply, it sounded so simple when someone else said it out loud, but to him, it was like a labyrinth. It wasn't just he didn't know how to tell Leon, he also didn't know how Leon would react: would he feel the same? Most likely not, Max would put good money on it. He was almost certain Leon was straight, so what was the point? If he knew all this why was he even considering saying something? He could just ignore it all, put it to the back of his mind and continue having a normal friendship. 

But the problem Max had was that this was what he had been doing for so long: pushing his feelings away so as not to ruin the friendship he held so dearly. And yet, 'just friends' was becoming excruciating now, the charade was going on for too long. 

"Yes, I mean-, yeah. Yeah I guess." Max replied after a moment.

Mario looked at Marco and smiled, obviously finding much more hilarity in the situation than Max was. "Well, you came to the right person. That was exactly how I felt with Marco. Basically, you just have to find a good time to say it, like, I don't know, after your first match. How confident are you that you're going to win?"

"Fairly."

"Okay, that's good enough for me. Tell him after the match, don't beat around the bush, just tell him - pure and simple." Mario reasoned, earning a nod from his boyfriend.

"Yeah, be confident with it, if he's anything like me he'll love confidence." Marco smirked, planting a kiss on Mario's nose.

Max huffed, "thanks guys, I know your relationship is perfect no need to remind me."

"Just trust us, be confident and speak your mind." Mario said. "Oh, and try not to lose."

 

 

Max felt sick to his stomach as soon as he saw Leon fall to the ground. He could feel his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces timed perfectly with the crash of bone as his teammate collided with the floor. 

"Fuck, Max, call the medical team." Leon hissed through gritted teeth, clutching his shoulder.

The younger was frozen to the spot for a moment.  _No, no, no, this wasn't how it was meant to work out._  Before he could open his mouth, he heard the medical team being shouted for to his left, another teammate was calling for them. He was too slow to react, he had failed Leon. Such a simple task and he couldn't do it because he was too busy thinking about himself. How selfish was that? Leon could've been seriously injured and needed immediate medical attention and Max hadn't called for them. 

"Y-you'll be okay, right?" Max questioned desperately. 

"I don't know, it hurts like a bitch." Replied the elder German.

Max looked away, embarrassed by the tears that were forming in his eyes, he just couldn't fight them back. It was all meant to work out - they were meant to win, Max was meant to confess his feelings, Leon was meant to say he reciprocated them and they were meant to live happily ever after. But no, the universe hated him. Of course Leon had to get injured, I mean it would've been too easy, wouldn't it? And it had to be a bad injury too; Max could hear some of his teammates murmuring about who would be the new captain - as if Leon had died or something. 

With a sigh to compose himself, Max bent down so he was level with Leon who was finally sat up, still clutching his shoulder. "You'll be okay, right?" He repeated.

Leon failed to look Max in the eye, if that wasn't a sign for the worst, he didn't know what was. 

"I'm not sure, Max." Leon sighed, his breath hitching as the medical team snapped his shoulder backwards forcefully, "that hurt like hell." 

"Y-you can just get painkillers right? Like that magic spray, or something, that works, doesn't it?" Max ran a hand through his hair in desperation.

"I'm sorry Mr Meyer, but I don't think magic spray will work for this, we're looking at a possible fracture here." A member of the medical team looked up at Max with a pitying stare. 

_Possible fracture? Just say it as it is doc, I know his tournament's over._

Max nodded in response, not fully convinced he was in the right mindset to play the rest of the game. It all felt a little unreal, like a strange dream. Everything moved weirdly, slowly and then sped up. He closed his eyes for a long moment, attempting to shut out the deafening silence from his mind. It was almost too much to handle. The earth shook beneath his feet - dragging his thoughts this way and that as they jumbled around in his head, he couldn't think straight. If Leon was injured that meant he would have to travel home, and even though it would seem like a really easy thing to do, Max didn't fancy confessing his feelings to Leon over the phone. 

That was one thing he knew for certain, Leon preferred communication of the real life variety, something Max had learnt from the amount of time he had spent with him. Every movie where the main character would confess their love via text or a phone call, Leon would groan and say  _"That's so cliché! No one would ever do that in real life, and if they did it would be the worst way to do it."_  

"He'll be fine you know, Max." Sven Bender appeared at his side, placing an arm around his shoulder. 

Max murmured in what could be taken as an agreement.  _You don't understand, Sven. You're not the person who likes him._

 

 

"We couldn't even win!" Max whined to a perplexed Mario, once again consulting the older German about his predicament.

"Well, it's not all bad." Mario attempted to reason with him, scratching the back of his neck in nervousness.

Max scoffed and shook his head, "I'm so screwed, what do I do now?"

"This could be a blessing in disguise you know, Max." 

Max struggled to comprehend Mario's statement. It made no sense. The physios were saying Leon was going to have to return home to start his recovery, so no Leon = no confession, simple as that. 

"Work your ass off, get to the final and hold his shirt up, like I did." Mario began. "You'd be surprised how much that changed for me."

"What if we don't get to the final?" sighed Max.

Mario rolled his eyes "Oh my God, Max, just believe in yourself for once, okay? You can- scrap that, you  _will_ get to the final, you  _will_ win it and you  _will_  hold up his shirt."

Maybe Mario was right. There were only 4 games they would have to win to gain a place in the final. 4 games of 90 minutes. Max was never really good at maths, so he couldn't work out how many minutes that was in total. He just settled on the idea that it was a lot of minutes for the chance to get into the final. Mission get Leon to like him was now changing name to mission reach the fina;. Max wasn't sure which was harder.

 

 

 -Match Report-

 

_Germany 3 - 3 South Korea_

_Gnabry 33' , 90+2'                Hwang Hee-chan 25'_  
Selke 55'                             Son Heung-min 57'  
                                        Suk Hyun-jun 87'

_"This point is a good result for South Korea, who hung eight goals on Fiji in their opener and know they'll advance if they draw Mexico in their last game. It's less of a good result for Germany, who know they'll beat Fiji in their last match, but will need some help or an enormous goal tally to advance to the knockout round. Is the loss of their star captain, Leon Goretzka, causing problems?"_

 

-Match Report-

 

_Fiji 0-10 Germany_

_Gnabry  8' , 45'_  
_Peterson 14' , 33' , 40' , 63' (pen) , 70'  
                                Meyer 30' , 49' , 52'_

 

 _"_   _Such a resounding performance will fill Germany with confidence heading into the quarterfinal, and that will be worth a lot as they make their push toward the gold medal match. However, Germany's work was undone through no fault of their own - South Korea broke their deadlock with Mexico in the 77th minute, putting them two points clear of Germany. Mexico is now a point behind Die Mannschaft, making Germany's massive win feel somewhat frivolous. Stand in captain Max Meyer shone after a mediocre match against South Korea."_

 

 

-Match Report-

 

_Portugal 0-4 Germany_

_Gnabry 45 + 1'  
                       Ginter 57'  
                      S_ _elke 75'_  
                     _Max 87'_

 

_"The 2016 Olympics men's football tournament quarterfinals are starting to take shape, after Germany battered and humbled Portugal in a dominating performance. The final score was 4-0 but could have been much wider, with breakout star Serge Gnabry playing a starring role once more as he opened the scoring and lead his side to another impressive performance."_

 

 

-Match Report-

 

_Nigeria 0-2 Germany_

_Klostermann 9'  
                         Petersen 89'_

_"The game started in tentative fashion, as is to be expected given what was at stake, but it was Germany who found their rhythm the quicker of the two sides. It didn’t take long until their neat play manifested into a lead. After some sweeping passing, Max Meyer found space in the penalty area, superbly rolling the ball into Klostermann, who had a simple finish at the back post. A final against Brazil in Brazil will trigger memories of the last time these two sides met at a major tournament; in the semi-final of the 2014 FIFA World Cup, Germany hammered the Brazilians 7-1 in Belo Horizonte. While this is a much-changed cast of players, there’ll be pressure on the South American players to banish that memory."_

 

It just so happened that those 4 games flew by quicker than any 4 games Max had ever played in his life. From being named captain ahead of the match against South Korea that they eventually drew, to scoring a hattrick against Fiji, to helping put 4 past Portugal and then 2 past Nigeria, it all went by like a blur. It didn't properly sink in for him that he was going to be playing in the final until he was standing in a long line belting out the German national anthem for the last time that tournament. Up until that point it didn't feel like a final, nor did it feel like a proper tournament - not without Leon there. 

Max blinked, finding himself standing inside the centre circle with the ball at his feet, ready to pass it onto Davie Selke upon the referees whistle. Every blink seemed to make time skip forward 10 minutes, as if he had the ability to control time. Another blink and play was underway, shifting from central midfield to central defense then forward to wingers and back again. The ball was passed slowly around the German team as the defensive line pushed up inch by inch so the play was firmly in the Brazilian teams half. Nothing came of it however, with Max racing to try and catch up with a loose ball that eventually tumbled out of play - ending the onslaught of German pressure.

Max thought they had played about 15 minutes when the first chance of the game happened. He had always never looked at the clock in games, to him it was bad luck and just contributed to his anxiety. Nevertheless, it was Julian Brandt who cut in from the right wing and curled a shot that was almost inch perfect towards the goal. Max could feel his heart in his throat as the ball dipped devilishly close towards the goal, and then his heart dropped to his feet when he heard the rattle of woodwork. His pessimistic self would curse Julian for wasting a possible opportunity that were proving to be few and far between during the match, but he took a long breath and focused on a positive outlook; Leon would've wanted him to think like that.

But Max knew what Leon really wanted to do, and that was be there, on the pitch, flowing around the midfield drawing defenders out of their positions without even having the intention of collecting the ball. His position was simply midfielder - was that central? left? right? no one knew, and it didn't matter. He could play anywhere. As long as he was on the pitch, Max knew he always had someone to pass to, a foolproof way of moving up the pitch. Because if Leon was great at something, it was his movement, he was always one step ahead of the game, he knew when a pass was going to be played and where to move to get on the end of it. 

Max sighed deeply and tried to push the thought of Leon from his mind, instead imagining that he was somewhere in the stadium, watching over him like he always did (in theory he couldn't really help it, he was a whole 6 and a half inches taller than him after all). 

Almost immediately, Max pounced on a wayward pass from the Brazilian goalkeeper: twisting on the spot so he was facing the goal with a number of attacking options in front of him. He dribbled forward until he was inline with the semi-circle in front of the penalty box and instinctively chipped the ball over the defensive line to, well, no one. The ball ended up trailing out for a goal kick. 

"Max! What the hell I was open!" Sven - or was it Lars? - yelled from his right, throwing his arms up in the air.

The number 7 stood silent in shock for a number of moments, trying to comprehend what just happened. He was so sure of his pass meeting his target, but no one was there. He had played that pass thousands of times in a number of training sessions before the tournament began and it almost always ended up being a successful one that ended in a goal. He wasn't sure what was wrong with it this time, perhaps another player hadn't spotted his intentions?

"Well, you could've ran for it!" Max turned to his left, aiming to turn the blame onto, once again, no one. No one was standing to his left apart from a perplexed Serge Gnabry who was hugging the touchline far away from him. Max scratched the back of his neck in confusion, was he going crazy? He heard Lars huff in displeasure - he knew now it was definitely Lars, he was always the dramatic one - and knew he had messed up, big time. He just couldn't wrap his head around how. There was no one around him that could've got on the end of his pass, Serge was too far away and apart from him there was no one his pass could've possibly been directed to. He tried not to let the failed pass get to him, but it bit into his stomach as a reminder of what could've been.

 

 

23 minutes in. Max had looked at the clock. Stupidly. Neymar stood over a freekick just outside the penalty area; the perfect distance, angle, everything. Max wasn't even remotely surprised when he saw the net billow in favour of the Brazilians. Whilst his opponents wheeled away in celebration, the German team muttered expletives under their breath as a show of anger and wandered back to their starting positions, thoroughly disheartened. As always, Max felt angry with himself, despite not having any part to play in their goal - though he couldn't help thinking about how if he had played that pass correctly earlier, the game might've turned out differently. With a loud huff, he ripped the ball from the hands of a Brazilian midfielder and set it down in the centre circle, eager to get play underway again. 

Davie Selke nodded in affirmation when the referee blew his whistle and, upon receiving it from Max, set the ball back confidently to Lars who watched for an opening when the two fullbacks bombed forward but when one didn't appear, he knocked the ball sideways to his brother who looked at the pitch with eagle eyes, trying to find the perfect pass to play. Max seemed to understand this and turned his attention forward, there were spots he could run into left and right, with the Brazilian fullbacks vacating spaces between them and the centre backs, and perhaps space straight ahead, but there were a few too many defensive midfielders for Sven to be able to confidently pass the ball to him. 

So instead, he made a bee-line for the right wing, extending his arm out wide as a signal. When he heard boot meet ball, he checked behind to make sure the pass was directed at him, and upon affirming it was, brought his boot out to nestle the ball down into his stride, reveling in the loud applause ringing around the stadium from the German fans at his show of skill. Determined to play a simple pass this time, he played the ball through a gap in the defensive line which Julian had spotted and had made a run for, collecting it in a great position just outside the box. Davie was struggling to get free inside the box, man-marked heavily by a stocky Brazilian defender, indicating Julian needed other options. Max nodded to no one in particular and raced into the box, again signalling with his arm, an action met with the ball being passed into him not too far from the six-yard box. 

He never usually got this far forward, despite being an attacking midfielder. His favourite things to do were play the perfect passes for his teammates to bury, meaning he hardly ever found himself near the six-yard box other than for corners or the odd times like this where he didn't have Leon. Leon would've been the one taking up these positions, or being the one just beside the penalty spot, ready for the pullback from the wingers or midfielders who were in similar positions to the one Max was in. He was a nuisance to defend because he seemed to cover the whole pitch. 

With no options for a cross, Max flicked the ball behind him in a slick back-heel that would've been made even better if it had met a player in black. It hung awkwardly around the penalty spot for a moment or two before Davie stuck a boot out, pushing it back towards Serge who fired it over after cutting in from the left wing. Max dropped his shoulders as the crowd let out a collective groan, another chance missed. 

"Next time, play it to my feet, Max." Davie sighed, pointing to his boots as further confirmation that Max had - once again- made a mistake.

"Sorry, I thought you were nearer the penalty spot." He replied.

Davie ran backwards as the Brazilian goalkeeper got ready to launch his goalkick, "then look up before you pass, okay? We can't all read your mind."

Max nodded reluctantly, following Davie back into his normal position. He'd like to think he was a decent footballer, I mean, he did score a hattrick against Fiji, but there was something about this game in particular that was rendering him practically unable to play football. It was embarrassing by his standards - usually he could pick out a pass easily, especially when he was playing for Schalke. 

He blinked and found himself wandering into the changing rooms for half time, still 1-0 down. His teammates were all looking down at the floor, as if they were embarrassed to catch the eye of any German fans around the stadium. It wasn't as if they had played a bad half - quite the contrary in fact - but they knew they should've been more clinical in front of goal. 

When they arrived into the changing rooms, Horst Hrubesch was waiting for them with arms folded menacingly, obviously as unimpressed with the teams performance as they were. The players either sat down on the benches surrounding the middle of the room, the floor or stood up, shaking their legs to keep the blood rushing to them so as not to pull a muscle when they returned to the pitch. Max sat at the far end of the bench, head in hands, ruffling his hair softly.

"I'm going to put it out there, you all played well." Horst began.  _Hardly._  "We just lacked the clinicality the Brazilians had, they had one shot on target, one goal. We need to try and replicate this otherwise we simply won't score. I want to see you all trying your hardest to get into more attacking positions to support Davie, who cares if we're playing against Neymar? Have faith in your defenders and take risks, we need to add some unpredictability into our game. I want to revert to a back 3, so Sven drop into defense, Jeremy and Lukas push higher up to wing-backs. Julian and Serge, I want to see you as practically strikers. Max, I'll come talk to you in a moment."  _Oh, brilliant, he's going to yell at me, perfect._

Despite this, Max nodded at his coach and hung back whilst the rest of the team hopped around impatiently, waiting for the signal that they could start filing back onto the pitch. Horst had unfolded his arms by the time he reached Max, and his eyes were glazed with a strange emotion one could mistake for sympathy - normally Max would welcome this emotion but at that moment in time it just seemed ill-timed and patronizing. 

"Max, are you okay?" His coach asked, standing over the number 7 who was still sat on the bench.

The aforementioned nodded, "yeah."

"I don't really believe that, your performance would say differently. I haven't seen you misplace so many passes in one game before, perhaps ever."

Max sighed and almost laughed in the process, the comment really cemented his perceptions of how poor his first half was. Now it was no longer his own mind that was thinking it, but someone else's too. And, God, did it make him feel sick to the stomach. He was probably never going to be called up for the national team again, at least the rest of his teammates could make a pass. 

"I don't know it just felt like..." Max struggled to find an explanation, because to be honest he didn't have one. His mind was spinning and he couldn't seem to blame anything other than his own inability to play football for his performance. 

"Like something - perhaps someone - was missing?" Horst finished Max's sentence for him. "I saw your passes, none of them were obviously miscalculated, they just didn't find their intended target. Was that because their intended target wasn't there to collect them?"

Max furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to figure out what his coach was insinuating. "I'm not sure I follow." He murmured.

Horst took a seat beside Max on the bench and smiled softly, "don't try and deny that you and Leon have some kind of unspoken connection on the pitch. You don't even need to look where he is, you already  _know_. Your passes were intended for him, he just wasn't on the pitch."

The number 7 sat completely still for a moment, the idea Horst was proposing seemed purely far-fetched until he thought about it properly. His pass over the defensive line was meant for a player to run onto, a player with movement so unpredictable and yet so predictable to Max. His back-heel to the penalty spot, he even thought about it beforehand, how Leon was the one to be hanging menacingly around the penalty spot ready to slot the ball into the net. It made sense. The absence of Leon was suddenly coming and biting him harder than he had imagined. Before, he had managed to push that to the back of his mind (much like his feelings in that respect), but the gorgeous brunette midfielder was attacking his thoughts more than normal. 

Max could almost picture his stupid smile, one of the most beautiful sights in the world, regardless of Leon's insecurities about it. If he was here now, Max knew the smile would be permanently plastered on Leon's face, he would be reminding Max what an idiot he was for not looking where he was passing. Actually scratch that, he wouldn't be doing that, because Max's passes would've been accurate if Leon had been there. 

A sudden urge to hear his voice became scarily apparent and Max itched to be excused from the lecture his coach was giving him. "Yeah, you're probably right, I'll set it right in the second half don't worry. I need to go to the toilet quickly. I'll be quick, promise I just need to go." Max blabbered hopping up far too eagerly from the bench.

"Of course, don't be too long we'll probably be called out in a maximum of 10 minutes." Horst nodded with a harmless roll of his eyes.

Max raced past his coach and slipped into the room with the lockers in that the players were told to leave their personal belongings in before the match. He located his locker and punched in the code. 7 - 8 - 1 - 5. How embarrassing. 7, Max's number. 8, Leon's number. 15, 7 and 8 added together. It was the first thing that came to mind when he was made to think up one. The locker unlocked quickly and he pulled out his phone from atop his change of clothes. When Max powered it on he saw he had a number of messages from friends and family wishing him luck for the match, but his eyes only locked in on one.

_**Leon !  
** good luck for the match! i'll be watching from home :( score a goal for me will you Meyer?_

 

Instead of texting back, Max pressed the 'dial' button and held the phone up to his ear, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor as the dial tone rang out a number of times before he heard static that indicated Leon had picked up.

"Max, what the hell are you doing? Shouldn't you be getting ready for the second half?" Leon's voice was muffled as if his fingers were covering the microphone on his phone.

"Yeah, I am getting ready, I'm warming up my vocal muscles." Max scoffed incredulously, accompanying that with a laugh.

"You're so stupid, Meyer." The younger German could tell that a smile had broken onto Leon's face just from the way his voice sounded.

Max laughed again, "Maybe I am. I can barely hear you by the way, where are you?"

"Home." His response was extremely matter-of-fact.

"You listen to the tv so loudly, Leon, I can hear it from here. Be careful you don't fracture your eardrum as well as your shoulder."

"How do you fracture your eardrum, Max?"

"I don't know, I was just trying to make light of a shitty situation. How are you by the way?"

A loud voice screeched something unintelligible through the phone before Leon seemingly muted his microphone. A moment passed before he unmuted it.

"Good. Yeah, good. Shouldn't you be getting ready for the match? The Brazilians are already back out on the pitch."

Max didn't have time to comprehend his response properly, "oh crap, really? I need to go, Horst will kill me otherwise. Anyway, see you soon, right?"

"Of course. Go out there and win it, okay? Score for me too." Leon said.

"I will. For you." Before he could say goodbye, Max heard footsteps wandering into the locker room, so he hung up abruptly and stuffed his phone back into the locker, locking it quickly behind him.

Julian stood in the doorway, beckoning the number 7 to join the rest of the team in the changing rooms. Max brandished a smile to attempt to reassure Julian that he wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary and followed him back into the changing rooms where the German team yelled a few extra words of confidence before walking back out onto the pitch to the roar of the German fans collected in the stadium. Max ran Leon's words through his head once more before sighing deeply to compose himself. 

With a silent prayer, Max blinked and felt the ball land at his feet from a cross field pass. He hadn't dared look at the clock once since kickoff; he was too scared to do so after what had happened previously. He dribbled forward a few paces, looking from side to side for his options, finding only Julian in front of him on the right. Without overthinking for another second he played the ball swiftly into the feet of the right-winger, following his pass to create an option for an overlap should Davie or Serge fail to get into the box quick enough. A moment passed and Julian found himself boxed in between a number of Brazilians, leaving no option to cross.

Max raced towards the corner flag, "Back!" He yelled to Julian, looking up to signal to Davie that he was planning to lob the ball into him from the right. Julian seemed to get his message and swiveled quickly on the spot, opening up his body to push away challenges so his pass to Max was unobstructed; and sure enough it was, rolling just in front of the number 7 so he could run onto the ball and hit it with enough force to reach the head of Davie Selke who was dodging the marking of the Brazilian defenders impeccably. When boot met ball, Max could tell he had struck it sweetly just from the way it felt to him. It rose swiftly in the air, sailing over a number of heads before dropping almost immediately onto the head of Davie. In one heart-wrenching moment, where it seemed as though the header would be directed clear into the top-right hand corner, Davie was shoved blatantly to the floor.

"Foul!" Max screamed, whipping his head around to face the linesman, indicating a shove with his hands. His protests were waved away with the shake of a head. "Do you not understand me?  _Empujar! Falta!_ " 

The crowd inside the Maracanã stadium were livid. German fans were yelling in protest at the decision not being given, similarly were the players. Julian and Serge were crowding around the referee pleading their case, and Max agreed with them. It seemed like the most obvious foul he had ever seen.

Max took one last angry look at the linesman before shouting into the air, it wasn't worth being booked for arguing. Instead he focused on closing the ball down which was being passed around the Brazilian defense as they looked to run the clock down and hold out for the 1-0 win. His pressing eventually paid off as one defender panicked and hoofed the ball up-field towards Neymar, but it ended up tumbling harmlessly out to Timo Horn who gesticulated widely to the German team to urge them forward.

Sven beckoned for the ball near the halfway line and upon receiving it, knocked it sideways to Max who had dropped back in an attempt to get on the ball more often. He took a deep breath and thought of what he could do with possession; Julian was racing forward to his right, Jeremy Toljan racing through on the overlap, Lars was pushing forward in Max's usual position and Davie was beginning to make a move into the box. An image of Leon tried to pry itself into his mind, but Max pushed it away and played the ball to Julian, instinctively racing into the box as Julian made up ground, he himself running towards the box. Just as Max was entering the penalty area, Julian utilized the intelligent run of Jeremy by tapping the ball through the legs of a defender to the right-back, who, similarly to Max just a few minutes ago, ran onto the pass and lobbed the ball into the box, aimed at the number 7's feet who was sizing up his shot with only one thing on his mind. How happy Leon would be to see him score this goal. 

And so, as soon as the ball was in shooting distance, he wrapped his right boot around it, turning with the ball as it bounced a number of times before settling into the bottom-left hand corner of the net. The Maracanã exploded with noise as soon as they saw the net rattle with contact. Max screamed in pure ecstasy, racing over to no where in particular in sheer excitement as his German teammates chased after him, gripping onto his shirt in an attempt to pull him back. But he shrugged them off, spotting the camera on the touchline. Finally with a target in sight, he ran towards it and held up his thumb and index finger to form an 'L' symbol, showing it off to the camera in hope Leon was watching at home and appreciated the gesture. Once he had stood in front of the camera for a couple of seconds, the first few pairs of arms began to attack him from left, right and behind as his teammates embraced him, sharing the sheer euphoria emanating off the number 7 at his goal. 

"Max you beauty!" Sven screamed in his ear, shaking him violently from behind.

Julian's body collided with his right shoulder as the winger leapt up against him, "Let's fucking win this boys." He yelled over-zealously.

"Calm it down guys, there's still a long way to go. Remember the game plan." Max turned around to face his teammates, suddenly remembering the blue captains armband wrapped around his bicep. His duty was to make sure the team was prepared for the kickoff, they wouldn't make any progress in the game if they were too overexcited and pushed themselves too far for a winner. Their game plan was to work to the pace the Brazilians set, move slowly up the pitch, pressing them tight until they made mistakes that they could capitalize on. The game plan wasn't meant to change regardless of the result, and Max was keen to remind his teammates about that. 

A number of nods and murmurs of agreement were passed around the collected group of celebrating German players, prompting Matthias to clap his hands together vigorously. "Composure, guys, composure. It's still 0-0." He shouted, trying to level the heads of a number of his teammates. Max was appreciative of his comment and placed it into his mind that the game was locked at a 0-0; it was easier to make sure he wouldn't get too worked up about it. 

Upon racing back into his position in preparation for the restart, he felt a hand connect with his back: "Leon would be proud of you, Max." 

Confused for a moment, Max turned around to see Horst standing on the edge of his technical area with a broad smile on his face and cheeks slightly flushed from the extended celebrations he had endured with the coaching staff. Max smiled stupidly at the comment and had to turn away before he revealed to his coach how happy his comment had made him. The idea that Leon was sitting at home, watching the match intently, celebrating wildly despite his fractured shoulder when he saw Max's shot roll into the net, made him giddy with excitement and his stomach flipped like every cheesy romance novel described, though Max had never really believed it was true until now. He really was in deep.

 

 

Max could've slept through the rest of the second half. That was how uneventful it had been. Each team didn't seem to be very invested in attempting to make chances. The Brazilian teams lax passing had set a slow pace for the game, and as the German game plan suggested, they played to the pace of the Brazilians. A few pot-shots here and there but nothing clear-cut enough for Max to remember when the team collected in the dressing room at the end of the routine 90 minutes. 

Horst gave a similar team talk to that of half time, encouraging his team to carry on with what they were doing and assuring each player that the Brazilians would tire of the German's constant pressing and take risks the men in black could capitalize on. Max was tempted to run to his phone, hoping a text from Leon would be waiting for him if he did, but as much as he sought after the attention of his bestfriend / crush (either was just as true as the other) he was eager to prove himself as a competent captain that could step up to the position with eagerness and responsibility. 

Horst was already discussing penalty takers in case the 30 minutes of extra time was proven redundant in finding a winner. Max hated the idea of taking a penalty at such a massive stage so he hung slightly back in the huddle the German team was making around their coach and attempted to look unbothered. He knew he would be put down for taking a penalty at some point but he hoped he wouldn't be needed as the result - whatever it would turn out to be - would be already confirmed. 

It seemed like an hour before the teams were called back out onto the pitch, a couple of tired legs had been replaced earlier in the second half and Max saw no changes to the Brazilian team after the break, so he assumed they were saving their substitutions for later on in the match. Germany had already used two of their substitutes, bringing on Grischa Prömel and Nils Peterson for Lars and Davie midway through the second half after Max had equalized, Grischa and Nils were both attacking minded players, which showed the intent Horst had to win the game.  

Max bent down to touch his toes as he waited for the whistle to blow, wincing slightly as his muscles stretched with the movement; showing just how hard he was working them throughout the match. He wasn't used to an extra 30 minutes of running around, especially at his workrate, and his body showed this, but he was determined to carry on, not even giving his coach a fraction of a signal that he wanted to be taken off. 

At the sound of the referees whistle, Max set the ball off to Nils and wandered back into his own half, letting his teammate push further forward this time, a contrast to what he's used to with Davie who was naturally a centre forward rather than an upfront striker. It took Max a moment to compose himself and he almost found himself looking up at the clock to check the time even though he knew it had only been a few seconds since kickoff.

"Max!" Julian yelled to his left, bringing him back into consciousness. The ball tumbled to his feet leaving him with options open across the pitch. Instead, Max decided to take the ball forward, dribbling superbly through the Brazilian midfield; dodging tackles as they flew in left and right, but none could knock him off his feet. Once he reached the edge of the box, he squared the ball for Serge as the number 17 cut inside offering support from the left. Max continued his run into the box, propping up alongside Nils as they both made themselves options for passes near the six-yard box. Serge pulled out a number of step-overs before crossing the ball over his opponents head and just fractionally above both Nils' and Max's - in fact, Max could feel the ball as it flew just out of reach, causing a gust of wind to blow through his hair. Eventually, the ball tumbled out for a goal kick and Max sighed deeply getting his head back in the game and trying not to let another wasted opportunity cloud his mind. 

Another blink, another 10 minutes or so passed without any action. The odd push forward but never accompanied with a worthy attempt on target. Max felt himself growing more and more tired - the energy slowly sapping itself from his muscles. He had no idea how much longer there was of the first half of extra time, but he could see the crowd growing restless by the second so he could guess that time was running out for the German team. His teammates were feeling the effects of the elongated match time as well, not being able to produce exhilarating runs that they were pulling out in the first half and early in the second. 

Max almost forgot he was playing a football match for a couple of seconds as his mind drifted elsewhere, but he was reminded of what he was here to do when he heard Timo shouting for his German teammates to form a wall against a Brazilian free-kick. With Max only sizing at 5'8" he didn't seem like a viable candidate for a spot in the wall, so instead he made an effort to mark the Brazilian player about the same height as himself - that played ironically turned out to be Neymar, who had stepped away from the free-kick for once despite it foreseeably being inside his range of shooting. In the end, Max found himself wishing Neymar had been the one to take the free-kick as the only thing worse than the wingers exceptional ability to score free-kicks was his movement. He dragged Max this way and that as he tried to free up space for the ball to be lobbed into him.

In theory he was much like Leon in that respect. He could drag players out of their positions easily and work wonders with the ball at his feet, he was one of the best dribblers Max had ever come across. It was hard not to think of his brunette best friend at that moment in time, his face was etched into Max's mind like a tattoo, a permanent reminder on how much control Leon had over him - because it was true; why else would he have played so poorly in the first half if it wasn't for the fact that Leon wasn't there to receive his passes that were clearly meant for him? Perhaps Max was making that up as an excuse, but by now he was so invested in the idea he couldn't think of a proper alternative. 

Eventually, Max managed to clear the image of Leon from his mind, pushing it further back into his brain in a sort of 'keep for later' spot so he could relish in the perfect features of his Schalke teammate later on when the game had finished. But the only thing that mattered to him at that moment in time was defending the Brazilian free-kick that was becoming increasingly scary to him. Even just the possibility of the ball flying into the net made his stomach flip five times over. Neymar continued to race around in the box, frustrated by how tightly Max was marking him.

 _"Filho da puta"_ The young Brazilian hissed in Max's ear, giving him a hard shove for good measure. The referee blew his whistle almost immediately, ignoring the fact the Brazilians had only just played their free-kick, and running over to Max and Neymar, pushing them apart in precaution in case one of the two decided to start a fight. 

"He shoved me." Max explained simply, keeping his eyes locked on the Brazilian number 10. The referee nodded at his response and showed a yellow card to Neymar, pointing for the free-kick to be given in Germany's favour - much to the displeasure of the Brazilian fans inside the Maracanã stadium. It was a bittersweet moment for Max, he knew he had done his team a good service by effectively making Brazil's free-kick redundant, but he was also convinced that he would be targeted for the rest of the match, particularly by Neymar. The German number 7 wouldn't be getting away with it that easily and he knew it. 

Just as Matthias smashed the ball up the field, the whistle blew for the second time in the same amount of minutes as a signal for the halftime of extra time. This halftime only lasted for about 5 minutes, giving either team just about enough time for their coach to instill a possibly new game plan, but Max knew that if it had remained unchanged throughout the whole match that Horst wasn't about to change it now. So the message was the same: work to the pace of the Brazilians and push high up the pitch. A typical German team plan, Max was ready to work his hardest for his team, even if his muscles were beginning to scream in protest whenever he moved up a gear into a sprint. But he would take the pain he would surely feel the next morning if he got to feel the gold medal around his neck. 

"...Max, I want you up against Neymar in any situation possible and try to annoy him as much as you can. Play for the foul, okay? That doesn't mean dive, but just exaggerate slightly." Max's mind switched on properly when he heard his name being called. He nodded swiftly and programmed the words his coach had spoken to him into his mind. He had liked to think of himself as an honest player, he wasn't one to dive as some professional footballers do, but if it was for the good of the team he would exaggerate as much as he needed (he didn't do 3 years of drama in school for nothing). 

As quickly as the half time started, it ended with the forth official signalling to both teams that their gatherings were to be stopped and the game brought back underway. Max looked up to the sky one last time before stepping out onto the pitch and ran Mario's words through his mind again;  _you will get to the final, you will win it and you will hold up his shirt._ The first part of that statement was completed, and the second was underway, meaning Max could see the final part in sight, and hopefully afterwards a confession that was met with an equal response. There wasn't a guarantee that Leon would even see his gesture, especially not if the German team failed to win the gold medal, but Max had to believe that they could win otherwise he'd make the whole situation much harder for himself. 

And so, with a small amount of confidence brimming in his bones, Max entered into his position, the Brazilians taking kickoff for the last remaining half of the match. Neymar stood to his left, jogging lightly on the spot in a way that showed he certainly wasn't as tired as Max was. In a way that scared him, if it was between him and Max in a race, Neymar would surely come out on top, but Max knew that anyway, and he wasn't sure if there would ever be a situation like that in the game. Nevertheless, Max was still apprehensive as the referee blew the whistle for the last remaining half. His mind swam as it did normally with everything that could possibly go wrong - in theory the list was endless. For once it helped Max to think of Leon, his face when they win the match, his face when Max holds up his shirt, his face when Max confesses his crush on him. Maybe that wasn't the best example, I mean his face could be one of happiness or anger. 

In that moment, Max wasn't sure if he even wanted to go along with this plan; Leon wouldn't feel the same, he was sure of that. So why was he doing this? He shouldn't be relying on the word of Mario for everything, should he? After all, Mario's situation was different - Marco actually liked him back, and Max couldn't find a way of proving Leon liked him back, because his teammate wasn't with him in Brazil. Still, he tried to think of what would happen if Leon did feel the same; everything he'd have ever wanted would be a reality and he wouldn't have to tiptoe around the subject with anyone else. Because although he had only properly told Mario and Marco, he was pretty sure some of his Schalke teammates knew about his predicament, particularly Nabil Bentaleb who caught Max practically undressing Leon with his eyes (an action he'd much rather do with his hands but he knew that was something for a later date). 

He wasn't sure why, but he began running in the direction of the opposition goal, offering support to Nils whom he was running alongside after passing square to him. His mind had switched on properly when Julian had shouted his name so he could quickly push the ball out of his feet before he was robbed by a speeding Neymar. The Brazilian muttered a curse under his breath at not being able to get the ball back but didn't make any further complaints and carried on running alongside Max, stopping when he reached the edge of the penalty area when a Brazil defender started marking the German number 7 instead. His run wasn't needed however, as Nils ran into trouble, losing the ball to the goalkeeper as he came rushing out to bravely collect it from Nils' feet. 

He quickly released the ball upfield, aiming for the run of the Brazilian left-winger which he picked out superbly, the touch to bring it down was just as impressive and suddenly, a German attack was turned into a Brazilian attack. Max looked on in frustration - he was far too far away for him to be able to make any impact, so he jogged back into his own half, hoping he wasn't needed until he could get into a defensive position. Luckily, the German defenders were strong enough to hold back the oncoming offence and forced the Brazilians to hold the ball up until further reinforcements arrived. Max managed to slip into the midfield with ease, the ball now close enough to him so that he could make a quick challenge if he needed to take it. One of the midfielders looked up at his options and made a subtle signal to someone behind Max, whom he assumed was beginning to make a piercing run through the defense. Looking behind him, Max could see that one of the Brazilian midfielders was setting off, looking down the line to make sure he was onside and then racing faster as he estimated where the ball would fall. 

Max would like to think he had a decent work-rate, I mean for an attacking midfielder he certainly did his part for the defense. So in that moment, he chased the ball down with as much hunger as he could muster with his aching muscles and checked for where the Brazilian could pass: there were options left and right and of course forward if he chose to take the shot himself. Horsts' piece of advice to mark Neymar constantly played in Max's mind again and he moved towards the right where the number 10 was indicating with his hand that he wanted the ball passed to him. Just as the other Brazilian midfielder checked Neymar's run and flicked the ball with the outside of his right boot to him, Max came racing in and cut out the pass, pushing it back to Matthias who managed to keep it under control and slow the play back down so neither team could get too over excited. 

Again, Max heard an angry mutter from his right and immediately, he felt satisfied that he was doing his assigned job correctly. Perhaps a few more of these and a second yellow card would be issued. A Brazilian team without their talisman would certainly be a completely different opposition - much like Germany without Leon. For a brief moment, Max could imagine every curve of his Schalke teammates face, every fleck of stubble, every soft part of skin that Max was begging to caress with his thumb. He almost fell over. The amount of desire made his head spin for a swift moment, sending a warm shiver down the length of his spine. Again, he was forced to switch his thoughts from the beautiful Leon Goretzka to the game at hand - something that was happening far too often for his liking, he never knew his crush was that big. 

A sharp pain through his thighs brought his back into real time as he jumped for a ball pressed high up against the right touchline. It flew only slightly above his head, but had taken a small deflection on the way through, so Max grabbed the ball and looked to release it early to Julian who was making a run along the right wing. Ignoring the ache in his muscles from the previous excursion, Max threw the ball out to the Leverkusen winger who was looking to cross it into Nils - the tallest player in the Brazilian penalty box at that time. Looking to the sky briefly, his eyes caught sight of the clock: 1 minute left. He assumed that there would be no added time, he hadn't noticed any significant stoppages in play, so 1 minute to break the deadlock, and this was presumably their last chance.

Max decided to leave the headers for Nils this time and followed the path of Julian as he made ground on the box. He wasn't expecting the ball at all when Julian tapped it to him, slightly overhit but still accurate enough for Max to run onto it and dink it in towards Nils. The number 7 prayed to every God he knew off the top of his head that he would hear the crowd leap up and cheer, signalling that Nils had buried the chance in the back of the net - but he only heard a exasperated groan, both from the crowd and the surrounding German players. 

The whistle blew for the final time. Max dropped to the floor in sheer exhaustion, taking a multitude of deep, needy breaths to try and calm down his racing heart. Julian appeared above him, offering a hand which he gladly took.

"You don't want your muscles to stiffen up. Trust me, you'll thank me in the morning." Julian laughed, beginning to walk over to the huddle that was already forming around the technical area. Max followed suit, even though the walk from the opposition penalty area to the group of players collected seemed to take an hour. Horst was already rushing over penalty taking orders, though he still held his air of confidence and importance. 

"Right, I want Matthias up first, then Serge, Julian," a sharp intake of breath from beside him showed Max that Julian wasn't entirely pleased with the decision, "Niklas and Nils. That's the first 5, should it go further than that, Max I'd like you to decide." Horst finished, finally laying his eyes on him.

Max raised an eyebrow in shock, almost forgetting he was the captain for a second, "of course." He answered, rubbing his temples with even more force than he was doing previously. He had no idea who he would pick for the penalty lineup, he'd just have to hope it didn't get to that point. 

The referee broke up their huddle and took Timo off to run him through the rules of the penalty shootout. Meanwhile, Max collected his team around and made his way to just in-front of the halfway line, joining the Brazilians who were already standing in a line with arms wrapped around each others shoulders. Max sighed deeply for what seemed like the 100th time during the game, he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, but he had to. For his team. For his _national_ team. For Leon.

Matthias took his place at the penalty spot, kissing the ball before setting it down and taking the correct amount of steps back. Max's heart was in his mouth for his entire moment, and he was sure it stopped when it slotted into the bottom left corner, just inches from the despairing grasp of the Brazilian goalkeeper. A good start, but it was only getting started. 

Brazil, top left. Serge, bottom right - despite the goalkeeper getting a pretty significant touch. Brazil, top right. Julian (who looked like he was about to be sick), top right. Brazil, bottom right. Niklas, bottom left. Brazil, bottom left.

Nils Peterson, bottom right - saved. Saved. It certainly hadn't saved the German team. Max commiserated his teammate and assured him that it wasn't his fault at all. He couldn't watch as Neymar stepped up to take his penalty, running in a stop-start motion until he finally reached the spot, and when he did, well; Max wasn't ever really in doubt about what the outcome would've been. Top right. Timo went the wrong way. The Maracanã exploded in noise. The host nation had won it, snatching the victory from the hands of the Germans. Max dropped to the floor in a defeated crouch. He didn't care that his muscles were probably going to stiffen up, or that they would hurt like hell in the morning, he was too tired to think about any of that. Tired of it all in general. His head hurt, his heart hurt, his happiness worn down to a pulp. He had let down his team, his  _national_ team, Leon. What would Leon think of him now? He was second place, that was what he would always be: second place. Second place in matches, tournaments, Leon's heart. There would always be someone else. 

Max couldn't remember much of the celebrations. A number of Brazilian players came up to him to offer their condolences, but he shrugged them off; gave a smile and a nod of the head and continued to hold his head in his hands, thoroughly demoralized. Before he knew it, he was feeling the  _silver_ medal being wrapped around his neck, the jersey of his best friend, his crush, the only person he wanted to see right then, Leon Goretzka, in his hands as he posed for a few pictures for the press who were seemingly warmed by his gesture. He should be happy, it was a silver medal, an honour for a young player like him, but he didn't feel complete. He was meant to have Leon with him, regardless of the result.

Max wandered around the pitch aimlessly, clapping the number of German fans around the stadium who had stayed to watch their team be given the silver medal. They never failed to impress him. Nevertheless, he made his rounds around the stadium and wandered back through the tunnel with Horst, taking a slightly different route than normal to avoid all of the disappointed faces in the dressing room for as long as possible. 

"Max?" 

His head turned lazily, eyes narrowed with tiredness, but in one swift moment they widened. He wrapped his arms around the figure tighter than he ever thought possible.

"Why the hell are you here? Don't you have physiotherapy or something to get you fit again? It's not like I don't want you here or anything but I just don't want you to get injured any worse, you know? You should really be getting treatment right now, what if someone pushes against your arm and hits it? Does it hurt, by the way? I just realized I haven't asked that. Sorry, I'm just panicking that you might get injured worse and-" His voice came out rushed like a train.

"Max, you're rambling." Leon smiled a toothy smile, causing Max to smile as well, lighting up his insides in a way only Leon could do. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so happy you're here, why didn't you tell me?" Max pulled out of the hug but left one hand pressed against Leon's uninjured shoulder.

Leon laughed, "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Well I'm certainly surprised." Max's mouth began to hurt from smiling so much and he had to run a hand over his mouth to hide it. "Did you like my gesture at the end?"

Leon looked confused for a second and Max's heart dropped to his feet, "what gesture? I had to leave a bit early so I could get down here with enough time to see you."

"I held up your shirt at the medal ceremony, I thought you'd be watching at home so I was guessing you'd see it." Max murmured nervously, retracting his hand from Leon's shoulder and using it to run through his tousled hair.

"Oh my god, Max, that's amazing, I literally don't know what to say, I just..." Leon stopped mid-sentence to hug Max, trying to hide his wince at moving his injured shoulder. "That's so nice of you, I'm lost for words. I could kiss you right now."

Max's heard skipped at least two beats at that sentence and he pulled away from the hug to avoid Leon feeling how fast his heart was racing. In reality, he would give anything for Leon to kiss him, anything. He would give up his silver medal in a second, just to feel Leon's lips against his, his hand running through his hair, the wall behind him as he was forced backwards to use it as support. It left him hot under the collar and a deep blush painted his cheeks; something Leon picked up on almost immediately. 

"Just so you know I'm waiting for you to tell me to do it." Leon leaned forward so his lips were brushing Max's ear with every syllable and Max almost melted on the spot, without even comprehending what Leon was saying.

"Do what?" Max asked, unable to say anything more.

Leon pulled back so he was inches away from Max's face, "Kiss you."

A laugh almost passed the number 7's lips. Surely not. This was silly. This couldn't be possible. Was his brain really making up situations of their first kiss? Was he that exhausted? Because if so he needed to lie down as soon as possible; daydreaming so vividly about his crush wasn't normal. Still, he didn't say a word, just stared so deeply into Leon's eyes, drowning in the deep pools of brown. He could stare at them all day, all night, every day for the rest of his life. Happily. Without complaint. Not at all. He needed those brown eyes in his life, for a long, long time. They were his second home and he loved every fleck of colour in them. 

"Alright then." Leon shrugged halfheartedly and placed a hand on Max's cheek, pulling his face closer to him inch by inch until his lips were brushing the surface of Max's, teasing the younger German before fully pressing his lips down.

Max's body went into shutdown mode. Every cell in his body felt on fire. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest and escape to a different country, he couldn't breathe. But he loved it. He enjoyed the pain of his aching muscles because Leon was lighting them on fire with his touch, moving his free hand onto Max's waist while still kissing him without a pause. The hand on his cheek moved into his hair, tangling almost forcefully into his blonde locks, tugging very slightly, causing Max to gasp and allowing Leon to deepen the kiss. By now their bodies were pressed as close together as they could manage: chest against chest, hips against hips, aching for more and more contact each second. 

Now used to the situation a bit more, Max turned the two around and pressed Leon up against the wall of the corridor, placing a hand either side of his face and down his exposed sternum. Each kiss became more and more frantic as the two realized their need to feel close to each other, Leon began to trace the waistband of Max's shorts while the latter started to press kisses along any piece of skin exposed.

 "Max..." Leon's voice trailed off as he once again tangled his fingers in Max's hair, encouraging the younger to continue his attack on Leon's neck.

It all felt extremely surreal; the fact that Max was finally getting what he had wanted for so long, and he didn't even need to confess anything, it was staggering to him, especially after he was so sure that Leon was, one, straight, and two, not interested. He pulled back suddenly and looked Leon deep in the eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me you were gay? I thought we could tell each other everything." Max didn't mean to sound hurt, but the thought came into his mind too quickly for him to stop it being spoken out loud.

Leon raised one eyebrow, "why didn't you tell me you were?"

He had a valid point, Max admitted that. Now he felt stupid. He turned his attention to his feet and shuffled them awkwardly, blushing profusely.

"Hey," Leon placed a hand under his chin and pulled his face upwards so he could stare into Max's eyes for a long moment, "I didn't know how to tell you because, honestly, I couldn't. It would betray how I've been falling head over heels for you since I bloody met you, Max Meyer. Everything about you makes me smile, makes me giddy inside makes me so happy I want to scream. The fact you're 6 and a half inches smaller than me so you have to stand on your tiptoes if you want to whisper something in my ear, the fact you always sleep in the bed nearest the door in the hotel room because you know I get paranoid if I do, the fact you always laugh at my stupid jokes even when I know you don't find them funny. Max, I may be better at hiding the fact I've liked you for so long than you are, but that doesn't change how I feel about you. Because, Jesus, you make me question everything I am as a person and it scares me: how one person has so much control over how I act, feel, speak. But I wouldn't have it any other way, because, Max, you make me a better person and I don't know why. Maybe it's because you're the most perfect person on this planet and some of that is rubbing off on me, but I don't deserve it, I don't deserve  _you._ "

Max stood still. His heart was racing as if he was already standing at the alter, listening to Leon recite his vows. His eyes watered, his hands shook. Instead of speaking (because even if he tried it would only come out as a squeak), Max reached up on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Leon's lips, caressing his cheek with his other hand like he had always wanted to do. Before Leon could deepen the kiss, Max pulled away but remained eye to eye.

"Leon. Christoph. Goretzka. Of course you deserve me, hell, you deserve more than me. You deserve the universe and I wish I could give it to you, but I'm only 0.001% of the universe."

Leon placed his hands either side of Max's hips and, in one swift moment, had him pressed up against the wall instead, legs wrapped around his waist.

"Maximilian. Meyer. Having the whole universe is overrated. And even if I did have it, I'd give it up for you. You, and only you."

"Me?"

"You."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
